


cataloguing

by simplyclockwork



Series: natural progression [21]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Cuddling, Developing Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, Established Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, Fluffy, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, POV John Watson, Series, Sherlock-centric, Slow Burn, soft
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-30
Updated: 2019-11-30
Packaged: 2021-02-25 21:01:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 355
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21621910
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/simplyclockwork/pseuds/simplyclockwork
Summary: “you pressed your fingers intomy neck to feel me breatheand to see how fastmy heart was beating”
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes & John Watson, Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Series: natural progression [21]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1538974
Comments: 8
Kudos: 55





	cataloguing

**Author's Note:**

> Ficlet 21 in a series of short fics I'm planning to write based on posts from the tumblr account affectionatesuggestion
> 
> The series will follow a progression into an established Johnlock relationship

Around 2am, John wakes to a light touch at his neck. Warm fingers, brushing over the pulse beneath his skin. Sleepy and soft, he shifts back, pressing into Sherlock’s chest. He’s rewarded with a low hum, a pleased breath over the back of his neck. The fingers twitch; stroke along the ridge of his trachea and across the jagged sweep of a collar bone.

“Mm,” John hums, eyes slipping shut. “Feels good.”

He doesn’t know when he fell asleep. Remembers leaving Sherlock to doze after laying together for an hour, Sherlock resting on his chest, curls tickling the line of John’s jaw. He’d made tea; sat and read the paper. Eaten leftover takeaway and tidied the kitchen.

Sherlock had slept through the day dwindling into evening; didn’t wake when the sun passed below the horizon.

Snuggling into warm sheets and warmer arms, John recalls returning to the detective’s bedroom; slipping under the comforter and pressing his face into a warm—if bony—shoulder. Sherlock had curled around him, making a sleepy comma shape against his side.

Now, blinking heavy lids, John lays on his side with a sociopath pressing into his back and fingers drifting along his throat. When Sherlock’s touch pauses at his carotid again, John snorts.

“What’re you doing?” He asks, voice warm with sleep. Because Sherlock’s touches are too precise; calculated and specific.

Sherlock’s breath tickles against his ear.

“Cataloguing.” He replies, murmuring voice a rumble through his chest, pressing to John’s back.

And John snorts, fondness in the sound, because of course. Had he expected a difference answer? Not particularly.

“And what are you cataloguing?” John says, rubbing his cheek against the pillow.

“Pulse.” Sherlock hums, stroking a finger along John’s cheek. “And breathing rate.” His hand slips down to John’s chest, fingers splaying over skin and bone and muscle.

“Daft bugger.” John mumbles, and his voice is fond as his eyes slide shut. Drifting off, he feels Sherlock’s hand move over his shoulder and up to his neck, fingers finding his pulse point again. John smiles and sinks into the comfort and heat of the body curling against his back.


End file.
